


Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too

by Demorra (thebibliosphere)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Choosing Sides, Hurt/Comfort, I have no idea if this counts as hurt/comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Moments, back on my tooth rotting fluff bullshit, but just in case, hello it is me, they're having a moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebibliosphere/pseuds/Demorra
Summary: He didn’t want to think about the bookshop. It hurt in a way that was entirely too visceral to be angelic, and entirely too earth shattering to be human. It was the love of several hundred years, burned up in an instant. It shouldn’t have mattered, not if he were truly angelic. But he shed a few silent tears anyway and felt somewhat better for it. All things considered, it wasn’t the end of the world.No, that had been much more complicated.And yet, somehow so very mundanely human. No great battle, no heavenly sounding of horns or hordes of demons. Just a choice, a choice not between Good and Evil, but between darkness and light, hope and despair, fear and… and love…





	Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too

It was just after ten o’clock in the evening when the number 6 bus for Oxford inexplicably detoured through London, stopping outside a plush row of Georgian townhouses in Mayfair to let its two lone passengers disembark.

“Cheers mate,” Crowley mumbled as he stumbled from the bus on legs that suddenly didn’t remember how to walk, and very nearly gave way when his boots hit the pavement. He’d been wondering when exactly the effort of keeping the Bentley going and stopping all of time and reality would catch up with him, and apparently the answer was, “exactly right about now”.

Human bodies, he reflected philosophically as he staggered upright and began fumbling for his keys, while marvelous in many ways, were also a complete and utter catastrophe to manage. Take adrenaline for instance. Bloody marvelous when you needed to outrun the predator in the tall grasses—or lift a burning car to save someone trapped underneath. But with that also came the Molotov chemical cocktail of blood pumping, heart pounding hormones. A mixologist’s nightmare of endorphins, dopamine and cortisol all mingling together to culminate in the human equivalent of throwing napalm onto a house fire.

And that was just the human experience, never mind that of an occult dark entity forced to inhabit the same mortal coil for some six thousand years and pocket change.

“Thank you so much,” he heard Aziraphale say behind him, the angel stepping down to land lightly beside Crowley who was beginning to contemplate the merits of throwing up. “I do hope we didn’t inconvenience you too much. Safe journey.”

When the doors hissed shut and the bus pulled away, the angel dropped his pleasant smile, and turned his worried attention to his demonic counterpart. “Crowley, Anthony, what’s wrong?”

“Not built for this,” Crowley muttered, suddenly regretting swigging half the bottle of wine back on the green as it threatened to come back up in a very human manner indeed. “Human bodies, they’re barely built for humans, never mind,” he gestured vaguely between the two of them.

“Just breathe,” Aziraphale said, sounding as though he’d heard it was the thing to say in such situations, and also possibly like he was talking to himself.

After several more seconds, Crowley straightened up as best he could, taking in a deep steadying breath and tried to force his legs back under his control. “I’m fine, I’m all right, just… just need a bit of a lie down is all. Right, come on angel, lets get you inside. Can’t have the neighbors peering through the curtains all night long.”

It took him several tries to get the key in the lock, and while under normal circumstances he might have used his powers to bypass it instead, it was suddenly very important to him to have real things to hold onto. Real things, solid things. Like keys and locks and mix tapes and…

Aziraphale put a steadying hand on the small of his back when he swayed, gently pushing him forward through the open door and up the stairs until they reached Crowley’s door. The flat was just as he’d left it—including the dark stain on the floor where Ligur had been.

“Mind your step, angel,” Crowley said over his shoulder, stepping lithely to avoid any remnants of holy water left behind that might be seeped into the carpet.

Aziraphale, stared at the black glistening spot where the demon had been, and gave the air a delicate little sniff.

“Is that… why can I smell… _holy water_.” He turned wide eyes toward Crowley, who was in the process of trying to decide whether he wanted to try and make it to bed, or if faceplanting on the white leather couch was a better idea. “Crowley, what did you _do_?”

“I told you,” the demon said, taking off his sunglasses as he sat down heavily on the couch and rubbed at his burning eyes. He really desperately wanted to sleep. The world always looked a little better after a hundred-year nap. Or at the very least, _different_. “I needed it for insurance.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again, primly stepping over the remains of what had once been Ligur, and miracling the last of the holy water staining the rug away. It did not however, remove the stain of Ligur.

_Ugh, I’m going to have to redecorate,_ Crowley thought, then laughed at the absolute absurdity of it. A mere few hours ago they’d faced down the forces of Heaven and Hell and Satan himself while the world hung in the balance of an eleven-year-old boy’s brain. And now he was wondering about putting in hardwood flooring. He’d heard floating bamboo tiles were becoming all the rage. Whatever that meant.

“There’ll be hell to pay,” Aziraphale warned, dragging his thoughts back into the present, and Crowley glanced up, giving him a wry look.

“You mean, more than what’s already going to happen for stopping Armageddon?”

The angel looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his shoulders inched down wearily, resigned. “Point taken.”

“So,” he said after a moment, swinging his arms slightly and bobbing up and down on his toes, a nervous habit the demon had always found rather annoyingly endearing, “this is your _flat_ is it?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Crowley said, rallying somewhat and propelling himself upright from the spot on the couch where he’d landed. “You haven’t been here since…”

“I’ve never been here at all,” the angel replied, giving Crowley a sidelong little glance, “ _you_ , on the other hand, were never out my shop.”

“Well, it was always on my way.”

“On your way to where?”

“Everywhere. Kitchen’s through here,” he said, motioning vaguely off to the side, “kettles always boiled. Bathroom, office…” he gestured vaguely again, mumbling, “plant room…”

“Plant room?” the angel perked up, switching direction from the kitchen toward the sun room that served as Crowley’s personal terrarium. “Oh my, Crowley, I had no idea. These are simply divine.”

“Yeah,” the demon said dismissively, glaring around the room and making threatening gestures behind the angel’s back, “They’re all right.”

“All right? Oh my dear, they’re positively exquisite! Look how green they are… I haven’t seen plants thrive like this since…”

“Cup of tea?” Crowley interjected desperately, the sound of the electric kettle in the kitchen dinging loudly behind him as it came to a rapid boil.

“Oh, yes actually that sounds lovely.”

“After you then,” the demon said, affecting his most charming smile as he ushered Aziraphale out of the room with a gentle guiding touch, turning back at the last second to give the plants a final warning look before firmly pulling the screen door shut and following the angel into the kitchen to find him inspecting the contents of the fridge.

“For someone who proclaims to only enjoy food socially, you have a lot in here.”

“Yeah well, that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Keep the fridge stocked in case someone comes round…” He didn’t add on that no one ever did. Even up until yesterday none of the other demons had entered his human domicile. He hadn’t wanted them to. The only person he’d ever gotten along with was…

“Ooh, grapes.”

“Help yourself, angel,” Crowley mumbled, busying himself with the process of fixing a pot of tea, and realizing somewhat belatedly he’d never done it before.

“Why don’t you sit,” the angel said diplomatically, taking the teapot out of Crowley’s unresistant hands and giving him a gentle shove toward the kitchen table where two empty chairs resided. “You looked positively peaky outside.”

“Well that’s good then,” Crowley muttered, reaching up to rub at his eyes again, aware that he was having to blink more than usual to keep the world in focus. “I’m a demon, we’re supposed to look revolting.”

The angel made a strange humming sound in the back of his throat. “And yet you never have.”

“What?”

“You’ve never looked revolting. Not to me, at any rate.”

“Not even when I was a _wily_ old serpent?” Crowley tried to tease, only to find himself met with the steady azure gaze of Aziraphale falling on him like the weight of the world.

“Never.”

“Oh… well then,” he coughed awkwardly, not sure where to look in his own home, “guess I’ve always just been a bit of a crap demon then.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” the angel said, pressing a scalding hot cup of tea into Crowley’s hands, which the demon cradled greedily in both hands, trying to sap the warmth from it into his bones, “I suspect I’ve always been somewhat of a bad angel.”

“Never,” Crowley said, somehow managing to affect a hiss without the utterance of a single sibilant sound. “You were just never one of _them._ ”

_Like me…but better…_

“Well then,” Aziraphale smiled gently, taking a sip from his cup of tea and giving Crowley what could only be described as a shy look. “All things considered, I think I shall take that as a compliment.”

They sat for a while longer after that, drinking their tea in companionable silence and listening to the world thrum on by around them. After a time, the angel said, “You know, I never understood the appeal of sleep. But it looks to me as though you could use some.”

Crowley, who had been on the verge of dreaming with his eyes open, shimmied upright in his chair, stretching his back out until it popped. “It’s peaceful,” he replied, peering blearily into his mug, surprised to find he’d drunk it all. “Sometimes I like peaceful. All evidence to the contrary.”

“Well, why don’t you go get ready for bed,” the angel said, his tone light, but ringing with the tone of command that lurked beneath that soft exterior, “and I’ll tidy up in here.”

“It’s only mugs…” the demon said, defensively trying to play keep away with his empty mug to keep Aziraphale from taking it from him, unwilling to lose the feeling of calm that had descended over them in the last short while. It had been a hell of a day, he needed calm. Just a little bit. Just to face whatever was coming next. “They can wait till morning.”

“Anthony,” the angel said warningly, and the part of Crowley’s brain that was still somewhat functional through the haze of the day, handed it over. “Go to bed. I know you want to. Dare I say it, I think you may even _need_ to, and I’ll not sit here and watch you not take care of yourself. Go on, off with you…”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” the demon groaned, trying and failing to sound put upon as he staggered upright, tripping over his own feet and calling loudly over his shoulder as he went, “but I won’t be _happy_ about it.”

 

Aziraphale watched him go, shaking his head gently and miracling himself another cup of tea. After a time, the sound of Crowley moving about in the other room died away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Which was likely not his first mistake of the evening, but well, _when in Rome…_

“Oh yes,” he said, smiling fondly at the memory, “we had oysters…”

He didn’t want to think about the bookshop. It hurt in a way that was entirely too visceral to be angelic, and entirely too earth shattering to be human. It was the love of several hundred years, burned up in an instant. It shouldn’t have mattered, not if he were truly angelic. But he shed a few silent tears anyway and felt somewhat better for it. All things considered, it wasn’t the end of the world.

No, that had been much more complicated.

And yet, somehow so very mundanely human. No great battle, no heavenly sounding of horns or hordes of demons. Just a choice, a choice not between Good and Evil, but between darkness and light, hope and despair, fear and… and _love_ …

And love had won, an emotion that Heaven claimed to be the champion of, and yet when the time had come, Heaven had been no better than Hell. And Aziraphale could almost have forgiven them, if their crime had been passion, a zealous, righteous zeal. But instead they had been indifferent. And somehow that was worse. The world had meant nothing to them, a mere casualty to the furthering of an ineffable cause with no tangible reasoning beyond a willfulness to follow orders. And that… that was unforgivable.

“And you were going to let them do it,” he murmured quietly in the darkness of the kitchen, glaring around the empty room at the air, “you were going to just sit back and watch it happen. And I was going to let you. Again. Well not anymore, do you hear me? _Not anymore_. I refuse, and if that makes me a _bad angel_ , then you can just go ahead and smite me…”

He waited for the roar of fire that must surely follow, the thunderous clap of lightning that would cast him out of Heaven once and for all, but all that happened was the sound of rain beginning to spatter gently against the double glazing of the windows. A typical British summer night.

“Well then,” he said, straightening the line of his lapels smartly. “I’m glad we settled that.”

He got up, rinsing the mugs out in the kitchen sink, and crept quietly through the silent flat, careful not to make any sound. Unable to resist the temptation of the closed door, he peered in at the plants again. It made his heart ache again, a deeper, older ache, even more inhuman than the loss of the bookshop. He turned away again and went in pursuit of the cause.

As instructed, Crowley was abed, a trail of clothes left in his wake, the remains of the day shed like a second skin. Aziraphale paused to pick them up as he went, folding them roughly and setting them down on the nearest convenient surface before allowing himself to peer into the bed itself where Crowley lay hidden under a pile of heavy blankets.

He ran cold, Aziraphale knew—cold blooded, the demon liked to joke—in every sense of the meaning. But somehow for Aziraphale, that statement had just never rung true. Not even in the Garden of Eden all those eons ago.

He stood for a moment longer, watching the demon sleep. It was a quirk he’d never acquired a taste for, not in the same way he had food and books and the odd rare item of clothing. But he found himself able to appreciate it as he watched Crowley slumber, the demon radiating a sense of peacefulness he never managed in waking. And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it, Aziraphale thought, looking around the sparse room, the dimmed spotlights in the ceiling glowing faintly in the darkness like distant stars, while a familiar [ethereal tune](https://youtu.be/_j2b1jpNraE) sighed out of the sound system in the corner.

_We can run away together_ , the demon had said, _Alpha Centauri, lots of space up there, no one would even notice us…_

_Yes,_ the angel had wanted to reply, _you certainly would know…_

He wondered if they still had time…

“Angel?” the demon asked sleepily as the bed dipped under Aziraphale’s added weight, the angel settling upright against the headboard beside him. “What are you doing?”

“Choosing my side.”

“…of the _bed_?”

“Of everything.”

They lapsed into silence again, a quiet kind of contentment falling over the room. Occasionally the blue wail of a police siren broke through the silence of the night, but other than that the world seemed to hover on the verge of a sigh, tender and soft in a way it had never been before.

“Angel…?” Crowley asked, sometime just before dawn.

“Yes?”

“You know they’re going to come for us… Heaven and Hell. They can’t let what happened go unpunished.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, pulling out the scrap of burned paper from his waistcoat and turning the prophecy over in his head once more, “that thought had occurred to me.”

“Angel…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know what to do…”

“That’s all right, my dear,” the angel soothed, reaching out to take Crowley’s pliant hand in his own, “for once in my life, I’m fairly certain I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Listen if you think I'm just listening to love songs and writing soft A/C fic to heal my weary soul you'd be entirely one hundred percent right.


End file.
